Bloody Oil

By Lev Amusin

It is November of 1993, and forty-eight-year-old Boris Goryanin realizes he never would have believed it if someone had told him six months earlier of all that he had experienced. He has been kidnapped and nearly killed by the Russian mafia, only to be rescued from death by Lady Melissa Spencer, a beautiful British aristocrat who would later become his mistress. As he flies over the ocean, Boris knows his life has been turned upside down. Now he just needs to figure out how to make things right again.

Boris regrets his fateful decision to accept a proposal from Gavrila Petrovich Kravchuk, the president of a Russian financial-trading corporation. The power-hungry Kravchuk will step on anyone to get what he wants; after Boris realizes Kravchuk has been the mastermind behind his capture, he decides to take matters into his own hands.

In this compelling historical novel based on true events, a saga of undying love is created in the midst of a bitter conflict between oil giants, international financial rogues, and a bloodthirsty mafia. The man caught in the middle of it all must determine whom he can trust and who is deceiving himbefore it is too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450270175

Lev Amusin

Lev Amusin earned an advanced degree in technical science. In his diverse career, he worked for several Fortune 500 companies, owned his own engineering and construction companies, and pursued international business opportunities. He currently lives with his wife in California. This is his second novel.

Book preview

1

Frankfurt, Germany

November 4, 1993

THE HUGE, HUMPED BOEING 747, with more than three hundred passengers hammered in its belly, flew over the ocean, as flight attendants pushed their carriages forward, stopping at each row, and with forced smiles, offering drinks.

One attendant, a youthful-looking woman, had by now reached forty-eight-year-old Boris Goryanin, who sat in an armchair on the aisle, absorbed in thought. With a charming smile, she exposed teeth that would be the envy of any gelding, and said to him, Was möchte, daß Sie trinken?[1]

Vielen Dank! Nichts ,[2] he answered and returned to his thinking.

Soon, the stale air in the plane became overwhelmed with an aroma, followed by a repetitive offer to passengers: Pasta or chicken? Then, after a clinical trial of the miracle cookery, innocent victims organized a long line at the restrooms, which trailed down the aisle.

Pretty Woman appeared on the overhead monitors. Over the last six months, Boris had had the opportunity to enjoy this modern day Cinderella story at least ten times, one for each of his trips across the Atlantic. Now, he had no interest in Julia Roberts’ shopping spree on Rodeo Drive. Instead, he plunged back into heavy thought.

He never would have believed it if, six months ago, someone had told him that his life would turn upside-down, that he would be kidnapped and almost killed by the Russian mafia, that he would miraculously escape from a gangster’s hands, and that he would be rescued from torture and a horrible death by a young, beautiful British woman named Melissa Spencer. But the fact that he, a middle-aged man, had achieved reciprocity from this woman who was almost half his years, and that she, as a result, had gotten pregnant and was now waiting for his child, continued to be unfathomable to him.

Who is she to me? he wondered. "The mistress? The girlfriend? It is nonsense! What will happen if my wife finds out about her? Well, what will be—will be. Still, it is a stupid situation: I am in love with my wife, and I am in love with my little Melissa, as well.

But, what happened in Geneva? Why didn’t they even want to speak to me?

Then the most repetitive thought of the day hit Boris again—Will I meet my Melissa ever again? What will happen with our child? Followed by the realization, I knew it! I should never have trusted that guy Kravchuk. If not him, then who else would try to kill us and get the money? Who is this best friend of mine? Vladislav Yakubovsky or Eddy Pennington?

Then the monotonous rumble of the engine began to work on him better than any sleeping medication, and Boris closed his eyes.

2

Moscow, Russia

May 20, 1993

THE END OF MAY was Moscow’s best season. The soft, warm, damp air was fragrant with the anticipated arrival of flowers and green leaves. And the fluff had not yet begun to fly down from the poplars.

Unfortunately, midway through the previous century, one of the cleverest comrades of city government had issued an order to plant poplars around the dumpsites of Moscow, and, as was to be expected, he did not choose the species based on how well it would correspond to conditions in the central part of Russia; instead, he chose it to catch the eye of his superiors. The folly of his decision, however, had not yet become apparent in late May, when the sun had not yet begun to warm the houses and asphalt-paved streets, forcing people to flee the city.

So in that spring of 1993, if only for the moment, Moscow was all beauty. And this is when the attractive young lady Ms. Lydia Ostapovna Selina[3] arrived. Her business card announcing a PhD in economics and positions as both board member and chief of the Department of Economic Development for the Tyumen Oil & Gas Production Association.

Being young and beautiful, Lydia was welcomed everywhere, and enthusiastically so. While making rounds at the Moscow ministries, somebody advised her to contact some of the newly formed Russian companies, particularly Agroprom.

There are smart dudes in Agroprom, she had been told. They will be interested in what you have to offer, Lyd, and they will figure out who can assist you.

At the time, Lydia was thirty-three. She was of above-average height, with the figure of a fit high-school senior, complete with classical long legs. Her dense hair, slightly twisted and shining with the colors of ripe wheat, was woven into braid and wound around her head. The beautiful, well-groomed nails of her thin fingers showed that she engaged mainly in brainwork. Her thin, gentle sunburned face, with its matte skin, its straight, small nose, and its attractive, kissable lips was dominated by huge, gray, slanting eyes. Her gently prominent cheekbones reflected her Volga-Ural origin. Wherever Lyd Selina appeared, she sparkled with youth and beauty.

This is also how she appeared one nice day, at about lunchtime, when she entered Gavrila Petrovich Kravchuk’s reception room. Mr. Kravchuk was the president of Agroprom, a Russian financial-trading corporation. Dressed in a bright blouse and short skirt that fitted harmoniously with her figure, she held her thin, diplomat-sized briefcase lightly in her hands, and her stylish glasses, in their thin gold frame, set off her impressive eyes. She looked like she meant business in a most elegant way.

In his office, Mr. Kravchuk was listening to his young secretary, Valerie, who was informing him that a very beautiful young woman was waiting for him in the reception room. He waited five minutes before receiving her, more out of protocol than from a lack of courtesy.

Ms. Lydia Selina, she said, introducing herself with a nod of her head, but without the offer of her hand. She spoke softly in a Volga River dialect, with its characteristic open O’s emphasizing her lovely mouth.

Very pleased to meet you! Mr. Kravchuk blurted. Please, just call me Gavrila. Then, with the seductive smile of the proverbial ladies, man, he bowed politely to his beautiful guest and said, How can I be useful to you?

For the last few years, I have worked as the chief of the Department of Economic Development for Tyumen Oil & Gas Association, she said. I have made personal connections throughout our Siberian city of Tyumen. In particular, I have formed strong business relationships with our oilmen, who have given me the authority to represent the workers at the drilling and pumping stations in Tyumen before the officials in Moscow, the capital of our motherland. She paused for a moment before putting a face to her mission. The people are tired. Their salaries have not been paid for months. And yet they cannot wait any longer to feed their families. And imagine, with winter not far off!

After letting her compassionate notes resonate for a few seconds, the official representative of the drilling and pumping workers of Tyumen continued. Therefore, by virtue of the above-stated facts, our trade union and local administration have decided to sell our black gold, so that we may buy food and consumer goods for the workers of the association and for the city of Tyumen itself. Unfortunately, she drew a breath, "we have no direct connections with the appropriate officials in Moscow. In other words, we want to arrange an export sale of five hundred thousand tons of crude oil of the Ural type. I have all the required credentials. I need only to confirm my authority and provide a complete report on the oil.

My questions to you, Mr. Kravchuk, are these: First, whether you would be capable of and interested in participating in this transaction. Second, if you would be capable and interested, on what conditions. Then pausing, Lydia trained her gray eyes on this ladies’-man president of Agroprom, and finished respectfully with, I hope I have made myself clear.

Mr. Kravchuk used his usual technique to buy himself time to formulate a response: he walked up and down alongside the large map of the former Soviet Union, which almost covered one whole wall of his huge office, raised his hands as if to heaven, and, sighing dramatically and shaking his head, exclaimed pathetically, What a great country the bastards ruined.

Before Kravchuk could follow his outburst with a full-blown description of political conditions in Russia and abroad, Selina said, Ruined or not—and who has done the ruining is debatable—the reality is that we in Tyumen have to live by finding a solution in these difficult economic-political conditions. Simply put, do you have a suitable infrastructure to make this happen, and people who are capable to work on this project where and when it’s needed?

Her straight-talk returned Mr. Kravchuk to reality. He went to his desk and spoke over the intercom. Val, please ask Nataly, Strelov, Filimonov, Isaev, Popov, and Theodora to step in my office.

Nataly was the first to step in, self-importantly shaking her wide hips as she walked through the door. She was a large and imposing middle-aged woman, a mistress-mother personality who always carried out Kravchuk’s instructions precisely. Mr. Kravchuk spoke to her as if he were a doctor dictating a prescription. Nat, please lay out a table for ten. If we are out of food and drinks, send my driver to buy some. Theodora will give you cash, as much as necessary. She should to write them off under the ‘miscellaneous expenses’ account. Any questions?

As Nataly shook her head, Kravchuk waved her off. He was already adding up figures in his head.

Imagine, he thought. "Five hundred thousand tons of crude oil at one hundred and two US dollars per ton.[4] That would be fifty-one million dollars!"

Okay, he said, trying to calm himself. There will be some expenses … well … but, there should be a profit as well. Okay. How much will it be possible to take? It will be a lot of money. A lot of money.

Just then, the remainder of the invited associates entered Kravchuk’s office one by one, introducing themselves, as was customary at the time, by not only providing the post they currently occupied in Agroprom, but also mentioning, with great pride, the last post they had held under the former Soviet administration.

The first to introduce himself was a tall, important-looking man with unsubtle facial features. Mr. Isaev, vice president on legal issues.

Mr. Isaev used to be the head of legal experts in Mr. Gorbachev’s administration,[5] Gavrila added.

Next was Mr. Strelov, a heavyset, middle-aged man who served as chairman of the board of directors of Agroprom. Mr. Strelov, Gavrila added, was the Head of the Leningrad City Communist Party Committee during Brezhnev’s time, and during the time of all subsequent secretaries general of the Central Communist Party Committee.

The next Agroprom associate to introduce himself and shake hands with the beautiful stranger was Mr. Filimonov, a tall man with the lupine look of an exceedingly clever and skilled Communist Party operative. Unlike his colleagues, and despite the summer heat, he was dressed in an expensive gray pinstriped suit. But just so there would be no doubt left in Selina’s mind, he added in staccato syllables, Agroprom’s executive director.

Don’t be shy, Mr. Filimonov, Kravchuk inserted himself, explaining to their charming guest that during the Soviet regime, Mr. Filimonov held the post of Head of the Leningrad Region Communist Party Committee. Mr. Filimonov was an associate member of the ruling Politburo.

While Kravchuk was involved with fully crediting Mr. Filimonov’s accomplishments, another colleague, of medium height, and simultaneously growing gray and bald, had entered.

Mr. Popov, Kravchuk loudly proclaimed, is our expert on oil questions, especially unsolvable ones. He is a graduate of the Moscow Oil University, and his entire career has been spent in the petroleum industry. (The unsolvable problems Kravchuk was referring to were not those of a technical nature, but those that could be dealt with only by virtue of Popov’s personal connections with a large number of prominent oilmen.)

And here is our Mrs. Theodora, our chief accountant. The tall, plump dowager of a woman that Mr. Kravchuk thus introduced was covered like a Christmas tree in expensive gold and diamonds. Mrs. Theodora Vasilieva had enjoyed an important position in the home-based Northern Navy Fleet’s Food Procurement department when her husband, a vice admiral, had been Fleet deputy commander, until 1991, when he was dismissed for participating in the coup attempt against President Gorbachev. Later, it was determined that he was not connected to the conspirators, and his military pension and privileges were retained.

All the guests having now arrived and paraded their credentials before the charming visitor, Mr. Kravchuk ceremoniously opened the meeting with a florid greeting of comrades. Gavrila loved such meetings, where he could show off before visitors, putting forth an exaggerated image of his own importance.

Our Siberian visitor has brought with her a request to assist our Siberian brothers, he announced, and proceeded to outline the opportunity.

When Kravchuk ended, Lydia, who had been silent all this time, outlined her requirements. In order to manage this project, we will need a skilled operative who has a good track record as a supervisor. For carrying out the project in the field, we will need an experienced, well-educated, and trained colleague who knows several languages and has spent significant time abroad. Then frowning in a way that put little wrinkles in her forehead, she asked, What candidates can you suggest?

Mr. Kravchuk, anxious that this gorgeous creature hadn’t taken over the meeting, blurted, We have a man living in the United States who is our shareholder and a member of the board of directors. He knows several languages, and has a PhD in technical science. Then after his definitive response, Mr. Kravchuk leaned over his desk and pressed his secretary’s call button. Valerie, he said importantly, please call Boris. He should be at his home in California.

But … Mr. Kravchuk, Valerie could be heard objecting over the intercom, it’s early morning in California.

It doesn’t matter, Gavrila said. This is urgent. Very urgent.

As you say, Valerie answered, and put in a call to the overseas operator.

Does everyone agree on Boris for this job? Kravchuk asked.

Isaev smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Strelov and Filimonov nodded.

Can I conclude that there are no objections on the nominee, Mr. Goryanin? Kravchuk asked rhetorically. He was now anxious to get into the dining room from where the food Natasha was laying out on the serving table was sending out delicious smells.

How long has your colleague been working in America? Lydia asked.

A dozen years. Maybe more, answered Kravchuk.

Just then the phone rang. Valerie said loudly, Mr. Kravchuk! Boris is on the line.

Picking up the telephone, Kravchuk rattled off his message. "Is that you, Boris? I hope we did not wake you. Still working out at the gym regularly? Let me tell you quickly what’s going on. As you know, the economic conditions in Siberian city of Tyumen are terrible. The government has allocated an export license to the Tyumen oil industry for five hundred thousand tons of crude oil, but the people of Tyumen don’t have access to foreign buyers. Neither do they have connections with the Ministry of Economic Development in Moscow to obtain the allocated export license, or permission to use the main Russian pipeline to transfer the crude oil.

However, Mr. Kravchuk continued in the same rapid-fire manner, they have sent us a representative and are awaiting our help. In view of this, could you contact one of the Seven Sisters and present yourself as an exporter? Tell them that we are planning to sell this crude oil directly through you. Further, can you arrange a meeting with a buyer? I am ready to come to the US, along with the minister of fuel and power, and our own team of experts, to enter into negotiations. You, of course, would participate as our representative. He paused, and then said, That’s all. I will wait for your call in Moscow, and, naturally, for results. Please, give greetings to your spouse. Remember, I am waiting for your call. Best regards."

Then Kravchuk hung up without waiting for Boris to say good-bye. After all, the food was on the table and the vodka had already been poured, on the verge losing its potency. Such a scenario was impossible for dear Mr. Kravchuk to countenance.

With a deep sigh, Kravchuk addressed their guest. Tomorrow, our dear Ms. Lydia, you will start working on documents with Mr. Isaev and Mr. Popov. But now, ladies and gentlemen, he said, turning to the rest of them, please enjoy this dinner which God has granted to we simple people. To the table, please.

Mr. Kravchuk adored these feasts, and was at his most charming when he was hosting them. As the assemblage basked in his happiness, Kravchuk lifted a full glass of vodka and toasted. Friends, as they say, money does not bring happiness, but its amount does. And with a wink and a nod, he ended with, For that, let us drink.

The table was overloaded with green vegetables, potato salad, fried potatoes with chunks of sausages, hamburgers, pelmeny,[6] and bottles of vodka. In no time at all, the partygoers became tipsy, and were soon joined by others who, though uninvited, were already drunk, and therefore nicely fit in. The little doll, Valerie, turned on music, and people began dancing. Then the speakers offered an appropriately off-color pop song:

"I do not believe at all

In the revolution social!

All my dreams and all my thoughts

In the revolution sexual!"

In a word, the party went well, and, in fact, all would have been perfect, except for one minor detail: they didn’t have an export license. To be perfectly clear, Agroprom had not been certified to export crude oil abroad. Aside from this trifle, however, everything was just superb.

3

May 21, 1993

THE NEXT MORNING, AT five minutes to nine, Lydia was back in Kravchuk’s reception room. She was joined a few minutes later by the broadly smiling Mr. Isaev, who invited her to his office to begin their work and then wasted no time in complimenting the young woman on her charming appearance.

After inviting her to sit, he carefully studied the documents she had brought, but then wasn’t remiss to also complete a thorough visual examination of her. Lydia made it clear she was indifferent by not returning the interest; she was used to aging men losing their heads in her presence. When Isaev asked her questions about the materials he’d read, she answered quickly and precisely, showing complete mastery of her subject. In the process, though still devouring her beauty, Mr. Isaev also developed a healthy respect for her knowledge and business savvy.

While Isaev was being thus occupied, his boss Kravchuk was greedily gulping down glassfuls of cold water, sharing with a hoarse voice and obvious pleasure to everyone within earshot, My gridirons are burning. And why wouldn’t his gridirons burn, when the night before, after several glasses of vodka to loosen up, he had drunk all by himself an entire bottle of Black Label whisky, and then finished the evening with a bottle of champagne? He had broken the immutable law of drinking: thou shall drink boozes only with progressively greater levels of alcohol.

Nevertheless, despite his disgusting state of health, Gavrila had already instructed the legal department to register a new company, which would be created specially to handle crude oil transactions and called, simply and elegantly, the First Russian Oil Corporation.

It is worth noting here that Kravchuk was a man of unusual features and a distinctive personality. He was two hundred seventy pounds, six foot six, and broad-shouldered. His features were regular, but handsome, including very smart eyes, elegant motions, and an imposing head of thick hair.

And as for his personality, he was extremely generous. Once, being in a Las Vegas hotel and casino called the Imperial Palace, Gavrila had, in passing, casually thrown a dollar into the belly of a one-armed gangster. To his surprise, the slot machine at once began lighting up and making noises, which soon resulted in money spilling from its mouth. When an attendant brought Gavrila his winnings, which amounted to sixteen hundred dollars, the Agroprom president, without hesitation, divided the money evenly among the members of the crowd with which he was partying. In addition to generosity, he could offer beautiful toasts, make perfect compliments to women, and always function as the life of the party.

Kravchuk had attended the Moscow Historico-Archival University, which, in those days, prepared students for future employment in human resources; in some cases, it also served as a springboard for further education under Communist Party supervision, which often led to careers within the party. In Kravchuk’s case, after graduating, he worked a few years in the provinces and then returned to Moscow where he was a graduate student at the Supreme Communist Party School. Then, springing from the contacts he’d made in graduate school, Kravchuk landed a position in the personnel department of the Central Committee of the Youth Communist Organization. While working full-time at this position, Gavrila continued to take correspondence courses through the Moscow Historico-Archival University, where he successfully defended his dissertation and received a PhD in historical sciences.

By 1986, using his experience, personal connections, natural charm, and knowledge of the German language, Kravchuk was sent to work in East Germany. After this excellent beginning, he expected to make a career working with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the KGB, or even the Ministry of Foreign Trade; however, when Gorbachev’s reforms abruptly changed the course of history, they also changed the course of Kravchuk’s life.

In 1987, Gavrila returned to Moscow and assembled a team of business partners. Working quickly, they formed an association that ruthlessly snapped up private shops, stores, and even the first private toilet in Moscow at Kazansky Railroad station. By 1990, they were offering private businesses protection from racketeers, not noticing that, meanwhile, they themselves were becoming just such racketeers.

Although many Communist workers were already fleeing the party, only a few had started private small businesses, and most of them, having formerly been professional government bureaucrats, didn’t know what to do except sit around and gossip. But Kravchuk knew what to do. He hired former Soviet Army Generals and ranking officials of the Communist Party and Soviet organizations; these people were called apparatchiks. Being of retirement age, they were united by their nostalgia for the former time, still hoping for restoration of the Soviet Union, still refusing to understand that power was now in the hands of a different kind of people—a kind of people that had no intention of giving up their power.

Still, for Kravchuk, these employees held invaluable qualifications: personal connections. Based on this reason alone, they were employed by Agroprom to carry out one task only—to obtain from the government substantial funding for a project of indisputable national interest. For this purpose, a multifaceted program called the Revival of Russia was developed. This ambitious program included, among other goals, relocating former officers of the Soviet Army, constructing affordable housing, increasing the birth rate, improving agricultural methods and productivity, developing small private business, and reviving the role of religion as the moral basis of Russian society. Although some questioned whether the program was a scam, it certainly was not. The issues it dealt with would remain well into the foreseeable future. On the other hand, within the next two years, all of the federal resources allocated to the program somehow disappeared.

These funds were, of course, necessary to support the projects developed by the Revival of Russia, along with the salary of its numerous managers and employees; the cost of daily banquets and receptions for delegations of Cossacks,[7] farmers, officers, inhabitants of the far north and the south; trips to check the performance of order fulfillment; and oversight and control of the use of various financial streams. But after struggling for two years to reach the goals of the Revival of Russia, Agroprom realized that tangible results would not be achieved any time soon.

Meanwhile, the Revival of Russia program operated under the guise of a trading company called Prestige, which Kravchuk’s wife Alevtina managed. Prestige was comprised of retailers, fast food chains, and a cafe called Molodezhnoye,[8] which was a great success among the young people, because of the popular bands and other performers who played there in the evenings.

Originally, the management offices of both Agroprom and Prestige were located in private apartments in a residential building at 1 Astrodamsky Street, which was near the Molodezhnoye. But after racketeers threw military hand grenades; one into the cafe and one into Agroprom’s office—as an unmistakable warning to leave, Kravchuk rented office space in a high-rise at 9 Leninsky Prospect, where, at the time, the Bureau of Government Standards, the Academy of Sciences of the Russian Federation, and some other large organizations and banks were also renting space. Agroprom occupied the entire tenth floor.

Although the building had existing security in place—something that had remained intact since Soviet times—Agroprom added its own force of more than two hundred guards. The man in charge was Colonel Dmitry Cherkizov, a former officer of KGB’s[9] 9-th Division, charged for safety of country leaders.

In addition to Agroprom’s main offices, a few shops, and a casino inside Hotel Ismailovo,[10] Cherzikov’s security force protected a cottage in the Zariadye[11] Housing Estate. One side of the cottage adjoined a summer residence once belonging to the Best Friend of All People, Joseph Stalin. On the other side was a cottage occupied by Lenin’s aged nephew, who took lonely daily walks along the well-groomed paths of the estate—and none of the prosperous new Russians who had moved to Zariadye had noticed him.

So the cottage in Zariadye, its bedrooms and bathrooms equipped with video surveillance and audio monitoring systems, and cleaned by a maid who also prepared breakfast, was kept as Agroprom’s private hotel for the most important visitors. Agroprom’s guests of honor were also assigned a car and driver. For all of these reasons, Kravchuk invited Lydia to stay there, but she politely refused, preferring to remain in the more convenient Hotel Mir, located near the historical center of Moscow in Bolshoi Devyatinsky Lane, a two-minute walk from the US Embassy and five minutes from Novy Arbat Street, with its modern shops and restaurants.

The Kravchuks themselves lived in a rented house in the gated community of Arkhangelskoe, about twelve miles outside Moscow. The entrance to this community, marked boldly with a No Entrance sign, was protected by a detachment of the Moscow Police’s special forces. Kravchuk’s house was near the house occupied by the family of then Russian Prime Minister Mr. Egor Gaydar and next door to the house of then Minister for Foreign Affairs of the Russian Federation Andrey Kozyrev. The community tennis court was often used by President Yeltsin.

All large houses in Arkhangelskoe were built on oversize lots and surrounded by high metal fences. In each large, seven-room, brick building, the flooring was made of high-quality oak parquet, the huge kitchen held two giant stoves, and the dining room had seating accommodations for fifty. Each house also held a pool-table room, a bar, a library, and other pleasant amenities.

Besides the usual group of security guards, there was a dog handler who, in the absence of the owners, released onto the grounds a canine security force consisting of three Caucasian shepherd dogs: two bitches and a huge male named Khan. The story was that this same dog team, plus three additional bitches, had previously guarded Russia’s large department store, GUM. One night, a group of twelve gangsters armed with knives, who were obviously unaware of the dogs, entered the store to rob it. In the morning, the gangsters were found dead, as were three of the bitches. Khan and his two battle-tested female companions were subsequently given the responsibility of guarding Kravchuk’s house.